


born of kaer morhen

by thepetulantpen



Series: The Masked Bard [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Goes To Kaer Morhen, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Winter at Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), Witcher!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29890446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen
Summary: “Have you considered other ways to disguise yourself?”“None with more showmanship than my current system.”(Jaskier goes to Kaer Morhen- though, he has to get a little creative. Turns out, faking your death can have unexpected complications.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Masked Bard [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745521
Comments: 17
Kudos: 42





	1. loudest at the dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tons of people requested Jaskier visiting Kaer Morhen, or meeting the other witchers. Initially, I was going to skip it because I thought it'd be very complicated with the whole jaskier-faked-his-death thing, but then I decided to explore it in a longer fic... which snowballed out of control. Now it's a proper sequel!
> 
> A few important notes before we start:
> 
> 1) This is a direct sequel to _you were raised by wolves and voices_. It might not make sense if you haven't read that first- but I'm not here to tell you what to do. Dive in without context, if it pleases you.
> 
> 2) I have only watched the show and not played the games- and I don't have the means or time to play them at the moment. I've done a bit of research, but my portrayals of Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir are largely guesses- and likely reflections of other fanfictions I've read. if you're looking for a very accurate characterization, you may want to look elsewhere. Nevertheless, I did my best and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> 3) I would consider this a bit heavier on the angst than the first installment in the series. It has a happy ending and a lot of high points, but the heavy chapters are more so than usual. Nothing worthy of specific warnings, just canon-typical angst. Take from that what you will.
> 
> All of that being said, let's get to it! As usual, this work is complete and I'll be editing chapters then posting on a somewhat daily basis, barring unforeseen circumstances (or a bout of procrastination). I'm in the middle of college work and preparing a DND campaign, so editing fanfic usually ends up last on my list.

“Have you considered other ways to disguise yourself?” 

“None with more showmanship than my current system.”

Jaskier doesn’t even look up from his notebook, the only sign that he listened to her words at all being the brief furrow of his eyebrows. Yennefer should know better, by now, than to interrupt his work, but her eyes are drawn to the mask sitting at the edge of his desk, its sparkles scattering sunlight. She drags a chair around to the front of the desk and drapes herself over it, propping up on her elbows and leaning over Jaskier’s pages of music. 

With a soft sigh, Jaskier jots down two more lines before allowing his attention to be pulled away. “Yes, Yennefer? Do you have something to say?”

“You do know there’s magic for that, right?” She gestures to his face and uses her other hand to fuss with the mask, running her fingers over the lace. “You wouldn’t have to worry about these things.”

“What are you saying about my face?” Jaskier’s eyes narrow, like bits of concentrated gold, but their intensity is offset by his goofy grin. “I’ll have you know there’s nothing magic could improve.”

“Of course not. It would just make it easier for you.”

Jaskier’s smile remains suspended, defensive, but there’s no light behind it. He drops it after a second and turns back to the page, picking up his pen. “No thanks.”

Yennefer sits back, studying him as he tries to write without looking nervous under her stare. She suspects, were she to attempt it, that reading his mind wouldn’t produce any meaningful results- he’s deliberately focusing on his notebook again, likely blocking out whatever’s really bothering him.

Glamors, for most people, are either a function of convenience or a reflection of insecurity. For Jaskier, Yennefer hopes it would be the former, but it’s hard to imagine him agreeing to it at all. It’s clear that Jaskier is attached to the mask out of more than simple habit- it’s part of a performance and, consequently, a part of him.

She understands the sentiment, if not the mask itself. There are certain consequences to smoothing over scars and relying on illusion. Still, it feels right to offer. She stands and gives him another significant look, though he doesn’t raise his head- properly engrossed in his writing once again.

“Keep it in mind. I’ll be happy to do it in exchange for a favor.”

Jaskier snorts, seeing through the threat of payment as plainly as if she hadn’t suggested it at all. It’s unfair that he’s both better at reading her than Geralt is and harder to read than Geralt, at once.

“I’ll think about it.”

...

Geralt gets to Jaskier’s office just as Yennefer leaves, questioning her presence with a raised eyebrow. She doesn’t respond with more than a smirk, content to leave him guessing at what she’s been up to. Her and Jaskier, since they’ve gotten to known each other, have turned out to be a formidable pair.

He opens the door before he can second-guess himself.

“You’re all determined to not let me get any work done, aren’t you?”

Jaskier is bent over his notebook, hand rubbing at his temple and brow furrowed in a way Geralt has learned means he’s struggling with a line and is liable to get violent if interrupted. However, he looks up when Geralt enters, an exasperated sigh contrasting his smile at the sight of Geralt.

Geralt shifts his weight, leaning casually against Jaskier’s desk. Judging from the look he receives, he fails on the _casually_ part. “Just wondering what your plans for the winter are.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, looking back down before his expression can betray anything, “we’ve talked about this.”

“You said maybe, last time.”

“I meant _no_.” Jaskier closes his book, standing up and moving around the desk to lean against the front, beside Geralt. He’s watching Geralt’s face, eyes piercing, and whatever he sees makes him frown. “Why do you want me to go, anyway?”

Geralt hums, having not expected to put this into words. Kaer Morhen is home, just as much as Jaskier is home, now. It’s only natural that he’d want them in the same place, and want Jaskier to enjoy the winter at his side. The others will be waiting in the keep, eager to see that they’ve all returned safely- or, relatively safely- from the Path.

He doesn’t want to split any more winters between the people he cares about.

“I want you to meet the others. They’re,” he pauses, looking for the right word, “important.”

Jaskier’s face softens- without the mask, it’s all more obvious. Geralt finds Jaskier’s expressions, unimpeded by a mask, are what he likes best about being by themselves, safe from prying eyes. Aside from Yennefer’s, that is.

“Family?”

It’s a difficult word to assign- between the two of them, the track record isn’t great- but Geralt nods, almost unwittingly. “You’ve met Vesemir. The others are…” he trails off, feeling like this was doomed from the start, “You don’t have to come.”

“You know I _want_ to, if you want to, but I can’t.”

“It wouldn’t change anything.” Unable to make eye contact, Geralt stares out the window and up at the grey clouds, weather growing worse as their opportunity for travel narrows. “It’s not about you being a witcher, I just-“

Jaskier puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “It’s not like that.”

“Why, then?”

It sounds petulant, even to Geralt, but Jaskier seems distracted, staring at the floor. It’s not often that Jaskier is the one looking away- though it’s usually for a conversation like this one. “I faked my death. I can’t just saunter back like nothing happened.”

“They’d welcome you. There’s so few of us now, they’d have to.”

Geralt knows Jaskier would rather they not _have to_. Jaskier would love to be welcomed back as a witcher bard, accepted as warmly as a tavern would have him, but they’d be lying to themselves if they said it was that easy. Witchers are… set in their ways would be an understatement. Jaskier would stick out, and he knows it.

Still, he smiles at Geralt, the lie as transparent as it was the last time Geralt asked.

“I’ll think about it.”

...

“This isn’t going to work.”

Jaskier stops admiring himself in the mirror and turns to Geralt, who’s glowering from a plush chair. Geralt looks- and he knows it, though he’d never admit it- like an angry housecat.

“And why’s that?” Jaskier challenges, smiling like he’s already won an argument they haven’t even had.

“They’ll hear your heartbeat. And smell you.”

Yennefer waves dismissively, still manipulating gold wisps of magic with one hand. “It’s insulting that you’d think I hadn’t considered that. That’s what the bracelets are for.”

She produces another piece of jewelry, a compliment to the necklace already around Jaskier’s neck, and attaches it to Jaskier’s offered wrist. True to her word, it replaces Jaskier’s smell with a human’s, laced with vaguely sweet perfume, and, with the addition of another bracelet, the sound of his heart is drowned out by a false beat. 

Geralt tilts his head, listening, and finds its rhythm almost unnaturally even. “They’ll detect the magic.”

“That I’ve got a story for.” Jaskier’s grin is different, fangs obscured by the glamor. “It’s cliche, but plenty of people have minorly magic family heirlooms-“

“It’s not minor magic-“

“Ah, but _I_ , a mere bard, wouldn’t know that, hm?”

There are too many risks, too many cracks in the story. Trying to deceive witchers, when he’ll already be under scrutiny as a stranger, is an unnecessary challenge. Magic only ever complicates things.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go as yourself?” Geralt asks and adds, before Jaskier can protest on account of semantics, “Without the glamor.”

“And how do you see that conversation going over? Oh, just kidding, I was never dead! That, and I chose not to visit for a few decades, no big deal.”

“Vesemir would be happy to hear it.”

Jaskier frowns, an oddly hostile expression on an otherwise harmlessly human face. Invoking _Vesemir_ always brings another degree of seriousness to the argument. If Jaskier’s relationship with him was anything like Geralt’s, Geralt can see why he’d be hesitant to reveal that he’s left the Path. Geralt doesn’t want to imagine what Vesemir would say if he turned up on the steps of Kaer Morhen with a lute strapped to his back- but it’s better than Vesemir thinking he’s dead.

Yennefer is standing between them, looking like she’d much rather be anywhere else. Geralt knows better than to ask for her to take his side, but he’s tempted- this was _her_ idea, if anyone could convince Jaskier to back out, it’d be her.

“This is the easiest way,” she says finally, surprisingly diplomatic, “Both of you get what you want. Jaskier gets to avoid an awkward conversation, and Geralt gets to introduce you to his dad.”

Jaskier bristles- another new expression, on a new face. “Vesemir isn’t- I’ve _already_ met him.”

“Sounds like it’s solved, then.” Yennefer pats Geralt on the shoulder, lingering for moment longer than necessary in silent support. “You boys behave, alright?”

She’s vanished through a portal before either of them can respond.

They’re left staring at each other, through the empty space she occupied. Jaskier’s glamor as firmly in place as Geralt’s frown, neither of them willing to break the stalemate.

They pack in silence, and Jaskier is ready to leave the second Geralt asks him to the next morning, not bothering to sleep in. He has the good sense to feign excitement, a litany of winter tunes prepared. None of it is terribly convincing.

Geralt can only think about how long the road to Kaer Morhen is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I've had this draft for several months now, but I've been putting off the editing process, then school got busy again... you get the picture. Anyway, I'm very excited to finally be sharing this sequel (albeit far after it could ever be relevant)!
> 
> I swear I'll write a proper piece in this AU about the dynamic between Jaskier-Geralt-Yennefer, but that'll be work for another day. Also, I'm realizing now the mask aesthetic probably hits different during COVID- so, uh, sorry about that.


	2. a stone heart is broken and alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier on the road to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt doesn’t get used to the glamor. It makes Jaskier look unfamiliar, sound unfamiliar, smell unfamiliar. Even after travelling together for days, sleeping beside each other and sharing meals, he still does a double-take every morning.

Fundamentally, Jaskier is similar. He has the same basic features, definitely bearing resemblance to the bard he knows, but everything is slightly off.

His nose is different- Geralt hadn’t even realized it was crooked before now, and is irritated to see that it’s something the glamor thought to “fix”- and his face is younger, softer. The scar across his nose is gone and the rest of his skin is smooth, telling a lie of a life lived mostly indoors, never forced to rough it on the road. His hair has returned to what Geralt assumes is its original dark brown, no swaths of grey, no lingering mutation.

The most obvious change is the eyes- bright blue peeking out from behind gold lace that clashes with them, competing for attention.

It’s as if most of Jaskier’s life has been erased, replaced by someone else’s.

Jaskier’s voice, at least, is the same- Yennefer wouldn’t dare touch that- so when he sings and Geralt isn’t watching, there’s no glamor between them. At night, it’s more difficult to ignore; pressed against each other, Jaskier’s cold bracelet and fake heartbeat against Geralt’s skin. 

He wonders if Jaskier wishes it was like this all the time. He wonders if Jaskier would’ve been happier this way. He wonders if the absence of a scar isn’t such a terrible thing.

He tries not to let his discomfort show, acting as normal, and as silent, as possible. He tells himself it’s not a big deal- not worth turning around to drop Jaskier off at one of Yennefer’s dubiously acquired mansions for the winter. It’s a senseless temptation, the urge to run away from this. He wouldn’t do it- wouldn’t risk upsetting Jaskier, especially if this is what he wants.

A few days in, he starts thinking about how different it could’ve been- Jaskier, human and not weighed down by a past other people affixed to him. Or even-

If Geralt had been human, if they had met in spite of chance. It might not have been so complicated.

It’s a pointless thought, of possibilities and lives that’ll never come to pass. Jaskier will always be who he is behind the mask and glamor, and he will never be the face that walks beside Roach now. The glamor is magic, not real, but for Jaskier, Geralt could pretend it is- he’d learn to take him at face value, if it’d make Jaskier happy.

Geralt clears his throat, interrupting Jaskier’s song- idle sound rather than serious composition, a murmur of a tune to keep pace to. Jaskier looks up at him immediately, hands stilling on the strings, but Geralt doesn’t turn back.

“You don’t have to wear that now, you know.”

“What- oh.” Jaskier touches his mask, feeling along its edge as if confirming it’s still there. “I guess so.”

They walk in silence for a minute, Jaskier’s hands hovering silently over the lute. His mask sparkles in the daylight, the filigree edges lain flat against his face giving it the illusion of being a part of him. Jaskier makes no move to take it off. He’s frowning- his thinking frown, one Geralt usually only sees when he’s composing.

“Actually, I think it’d be best to keep it on, for now. At least until we get to the keep.” Jaskier walks a little faster to pull ahead, only glancing back as he addresses Geralt. “Really, it’d be a shame to put this one away so soon. The color only works for the winter, and I certainly paid enough to wear it more than a day or two.”

Today’s mask is an icy blue and white- wintery, though Geralt wouldn’t have noticed if Jaskier hadn’t pointed it out. Not his usual color; typically, his masks are warmer, to blend in with and obscure yellow irises. This one is a perfect match for his new, bright blue eyes.

Something about Geralt’s expression makes Jaskier hastily turn back to the road, “Besides, I need to protect my identity. You never know who we’ll run into out here.”

They haven’t seen anyone for days, the harsher paths, worsening weather, and remote destination proving unpopular with travelers. All the same, Geralt isn’t going to argue with Jaskier- it’s an exercise in futility, most days. His insistence on the mask is confusing, but Geralt’s used to being confused when it comes to Jaskier.

“Sure,” Geralt tries, hoping that’s the right answer, “Best to be safe.”

Jaskier’s shoulders tense, rounding inward, and Geralt practically hears Yennefer laughing at him- ridiculing him for some unseen mistake. This should be simpler than it is, but neither of them are simple people, as much as they would like others to believe it.

Geralt pushes Roach to catch up to Jaskier and leans down to put a hand on his shoulder, gently urging him to look up. When Jaskier hesitates, pulling them both to a stop, Geralt asks, “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier’s mouth is set in a thin line, the only part of his expression not covered by the mask. He’s staring at Geralt in a blatant attempt to read him. “What do you prefer,” Jaskier starts, cautiously, “with, or without the mask?”

Geralt knows a loaded question when he hears one, and this one feels roughly like the tip of a crossbow bolt pressing into the back of his neck. There must be a correct answer- but if Geralt knew that, he would’ve said something a lot earlier.

“I prefer whatever you prefer.”

The words sound lame as he says them and Jaskier grimaces- without the glamor, Geralt might’ve seen his fangs. “That’s a bullshit answer, and you know it.”

“It’s true,” Geralt insists- it’s not as if he lied. “I want you, Jaskier, without any-“

“Without either, I get it. But if you _had to_ pick?”

Jaskier’s voice lands somewhere between frustrated and pleading. Maybe he’s looking for an answer just as much as Geralt is- though, Geralt feels woefully unprepared to give him one. The choices roll around in his head, each equally miserable, and a good answer seems just out of reach, stubbornly hiding from him.

“I want whichever one is closer to the real you.” Geralt looks down, past the lace and the blue eyes, and finds a rare uncertainty in the way Jaskier holds himself, fidgeting. “You don’t know either?”

Jaskier blinks up at him, mouth open and curled slightly around what might’ve been a scowl. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re infuriatingly insightful, sometimes?”

“No. Never.”

Geralt can’t help but smile at Jaskier’s half-hearted attempt to elbow him, settling with poking him in the shin. It’s not a lie, despite Jaskier’s indignation- any skill Geralt has in reading people is hardly noteworthy, certainly not enough to draw anyone’s attention. Most humans he can handle, but Jaskier? Jaskier is an anomaly, one Geralt can’t analyze, even after all these years. 

“I thought I’d enjoy it more,” Jaskier admits, eyes fixed on his boots, “Like a vacation from being me.”

“Why would you want that?”

“You’re telling me you’ve never wanted that?” Jaskier smirks, mirthlessly, at his responding silence. “I guess not. It’s like… a chance to be something I’m not. Haven’t you ever wanted to try it? Humanity, I mean.”

Geralt’s shaking his head before Jaskier finishes his question- he’s done quite enough thinking about that, especially in recent years. “No point wishing.”

“I know.” Seemingly expecting that answer, Jaskier looks up at the sky, eyes tracking the clouds as they walk. He’s quiet for long enough that Geralt nearly considers the conversation over, until he asks, “Do you think I would’ve been different? If I had stayed human?”

It’s the type of question Geralt would have a long conversation with Roach about, and one he’d never get to the bottom of. The noon sun at his back, a day’s worth of tension in his shoulders, and the dust clinging to his hair don’t make it any easier, adding to the building unease of introspection.

He imagines Jaskier might have been lighter, softer. Expressive, without any performance or effort behind it. Maybe even haughty- borrowing from the noble upbringing he would’ve been subjected to.

His courage, without the necessity driving it now, might be called into question. His kindness, too. Sure, he would’ve been caring, a romantic at heart, but kindness- true kindness- is forged in fire. It’s hard to know what Jaskier would’ve been capable of if he hadn’t known cruelty first, if he wasn’t determined to do better than what’s been done to him.

He’d undoubtably be just as loyal, something Geralt has always thought was inherent, rooted in a strong sense of empathy. A human Jaskier might’ve been a foolish Jaskier, ready to trade his life for another’s.

Practically, he could’ve died by now, caught in the line of fire, or Geralt could’ve died by now, with no one to watch his back. They might have never met in the first place. Strictly speaking, the timing wouldn’t have aligned- Jaskier being a witcher may be all they have to thank for their meeting in the first place.

Geralt shrugs, looking up at the same clouds as Jaskier, mildly curious what Jaskier sees that he doesn’t. “I don’t know.”

“Another incredible answer, Geralt, thank you.” Jaskier doesn’t sound annoyed, not really- in fact, Geralt would say he sounds reassured. “What brilliance will you bring us next?”

“Pretty sure that’s your job, as the creative mind.” Geralt raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier meets his eyes without hesitation. “Unless the glamor has changed that?”

Jaskier scoffs and swings his lute back around, strumming the first few cords of his newest song. It’s got the makings of a particularly obnoxious tune, the heroism laid on thick in its lyrics. “I suppose it’s good that I’m not human- the world would’ve missed out on _years_ of masterpieces.”

There’s an opportunity for a cheap joke at the expense of those masterpieces, but Geralt hums instead, and dismounts to walk beside Jaskier. He slows to Jaskier’s pace, careful and measured as he starts composing.

“It wouldn’t matter.” At Jaskier’s curious look, Geralt shifts a step closer, so their shoulders brush. “If you were human. It would be the same, with us.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes, at a loss for words. When he finally decides on them, he’s smiling- a human smile, one Geralt loves anyway. “I think so, too.”

He leaves the mask on, but Geralt doesn’t notice, preoccupied with the scenery Jaskier puts to song. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order an identity crisis? No? Well, _someone's_ got to have it!
> 
> Believe it or not, this chapter was significantly more melodramatic before I cut it down- now it's a little shorter, but also a little less painstakingly introspective. Only a little, because my sense of melodrama knows no bounds. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone's who's commented so far! I didn't expect much of a response, as this is a sequel to a year-old fanfic, but I'm very happy to see folks enjoying it!!


	3. born of no love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapter! Minor warning for fantasy violence.

Vesemir considers himself a patient man. He’s a teacher of witchers, and witchers, by nature, are stubborn. The boys that come before them even more so. 

Julian, however, is... something else. 

The first time he meets the boy, he’s not sure what to make of him. On arrival, he’s gloomy, which is common and typically a death sentence- boys without a sense of determination are the first to fall to the Trials. For a few weeks, as the boys start to gather and the year’s class is assembled, he is another dismal face in a crowded class.

He changes when they start their study, once everyone is settled- as settled as Kaer Morhen can be. Vesemir guesses it has to do with new purpose, a distraction from the shit hand they’ve been dealt in life.

Julian is anything but gloomy for the rest of his time at Kaer Morhen. He talks more than the others, smiles more than the others, practically bounces off walls- generally, drives Vesemir crazy. The insufferable habit of humming takes hold and none of the instructors, including Vesemir, ever manage to get him to stop.

Julian turns out to be strange for more than just his cheer. He takes to reading faster than any of the other boys; there’s something exciting in every passage for him, even dull descriptions of monsters make his eyes light up. Though he’s less interested in the physical training, he works harder than his peers, a fierce sense of competition driving him to better. _Best_ , even. 

Vesemir is not surprised when he survives the Trials, but he holds his breath the whole time, tense with misplaced grief. Julian has developed a talent for crawling under people’s skin and anchoring himself there, endearing himself to even Vesemir, who’s too old to get sucked back into this cycle of tragedy. There’s nothing distinctly special about him- he’s not the first happy kid trapped in Kaer Morhen, and he won’t be the last- and yet, Vesemir can’t help holding out hope for him, despite the disappointment he’s anticipating.

The Grasses turn some of Julian’s hair grey, but they don’t dull his smile.

It’s not, necessarily, a good thing.

There’s no room for optimism on the Path. For the few witchers that aren’t burnt out by the Trials, their first jobs are more than enough to kill their spirits. Better for them to get rid of it early than to try to maintain an incongruous sense of righteousness, trying to be something they are not. Holding onto to _before_ , a life they’ll never have again.

Vesemir puts Julian through extra training- sparring with the older witchers, and drills that he doesn’t inflict on any other trainees- and tells himself that it’s for the best. Julian doesn’t complain, meeting every challenge with a steely glare and a smile that gets sharper with every passing day.

He watches Julian win fights by any means necessary- there are witchers twice his size that he’ll bring to the ground. A _witcher_ with teeth bared and blood on his armor replaces the smiling student Vesemir once knew. It very quickly becomes apparent that Vesemir was wrong- the boy that came out of the Trials is not quite the same boy he started with.

Where he’d once been eager to learn, Julian grows stubborn, content to ignore lectures on form and approach each battle with spontaneity. A persistent recklessness haunts his steps, spurring him with an impulsivity that gains him an edge over his more strategic peers, but leaves him with more bruises than most. Julian hardly notices them, brushing each hard-fought victory off with a smile.

Julian is smart, he knows how he’s supposed to act and puts on a good show. Sometimes, Vesemir is certain he’s been trained into the taciturn, grim ways of a witcher, until he lets slip a genuine smile, or allows a sentence to ramble on slightly too long. 

It seems- at least to Vesemir, who feels like the only one who ever pays attention to the recruits- that Julian hasn’t shed his humanity in the same way many of his classmates have. He’s got a sense of compassion- manifesting in little things, harmless things, like feeding stray cats and straightening up the library after the younger boys. If they’re lucky, it’ll turn out to be nothing.

It's only once they’re face to face with a wyvern that Vesemir understands how deep Julian’s empathetic streak runs.

The hunt is assigned to Julian and another boy from his class, taking on one of their first real monsters while Vesemir watches to see how they’ll perform. Strictly, his presence isn’t needed, but he writes it off as an evaluation of their technique- nothing more. For a trainee, a wyvern is unnecessarily difficult; it’s intended as an exercise in teamwork, rather than a true test of mettle.

Trading blows with Julian is a violent, fast-paced affair- all powerful, risky swings and claw marks etched into armor, evidence of near-misses. It’s Julian who weakens the beast, but his partner who brings it down with one final cut across its body, digging in under the wing joint. Once it hits the ground, they both back up until they meet Vesemir, a safe distance out of the beast’s range to watch it die.

The strike is sloppy, enough to kill the beast, but not enough to do it immediately. It writhes where it landed, unable to get to its feet or wings again. It’ll bleed out soon; although the noise it makes in the meantime will be unpleasant, making this a learning experience.

“This,” Vesemir gestures to the beast, in its death throes, “is why we mark major arteries on bestiary diagrams. Now you’ll have to wait before you can harvest anything.”

Julian’s jaw locks, a tight line of frustration that’s undermined by his stricken expression, face paling. The wyvern shrieks, again, and Julian nearly turns green. Without warning, he unsheathes his sword and takes a step forward, hesitating only a moment to say, over his shoulder, “I’m going to finish it off.”

“No,” Vesemir grabs his arm, but Julian shrugs him off, tearing out of his grip, “It’ll lash out.”

Julian’s face is set, stubborn, and Vesemir knows he won’t stop him. He doesn’t look at Vesemir when he responds, eyes focused solely on the wyvern, “Not if it’s dead.”

The other trainee stays put, pointedly averting his eyes as Julian approaches the wyvern from an angle, staying in its blind spot. There’s no point helping- a distraction will only anger the beast and put another person in danger. Vesemir scowls and tightens his grip on his potion bag, trying to decide how he’ll intervene, when it comes to that.

At first, it looks like he won’t have to- Julian is quiet when he has to be, completely silent until he’s within range of the wyvern, and his sword is raised for a clean strike at the base of its neck. From their distance, Vesemir can’t tell what goes wrong- an unexpected clink of his armor, a breeze shifting Julian’s smell on the air, a twig underfoot- but the beast turns unexpectantly, roaring in surprise at Julian’s appearance. Julian doesn’t stumble back, doesn’t hesitate in the face of teeth and claws, and his strike lands true, ending the wyvern in seconds.

It cries out- a sound that’s melancholic in its lowness- and thrashes once more, tail swinging out unconsciously in an arc.

It’s a lucky strike, glancing off Julian’s chest and grazing his arm, but it cuts deep, venomous spike digging in past armor and skin. Julian falls, staggering backwards in the grass, hand halfway to the satchel of potions at his side.

Vesemir is there before he gets a chance, Golden Oriole already in hand. He has to hold Julian by the shoulders as he shudders, mirroring the wyvern from moments ago- though it lays completely still now, peaceful in death. “Idiot. That’ll leave a nasty scar.”

The wyvern’s venom acts fast- green branching out from the wound, faint under all the blood- but their potions will act faster. It’ll cure him, but it won’t be pleasant.

“Guess you were right.” Julian kicks the potion back in one go, gagging at the taste, and he smiles up at Vesemir, tense with pain. “It _can_ lash out, even if it’s dead.”

Vesemir almost laughs- he hasn’t laughed in too long- but there is blood on his hands, and another student behind him. Julian looks self-satisfied, anyway, as if Vesemir had laughed. As if he wasn’t covered in blood and wincing at the poison in his veins.

After a few decades, the fight with the wyvern is one of the few things Vesemir remembers about Julian. The smile, of course, is there at the center of it. For years, he’s worried Julian will die in a battle like the wyvern- too kind, too little concern for himself.

The reality is worse- everything about the siege is bitterly terrible in way that supersedes his own pessimism. Even now, as the decades pile on, he’ll never forget the day of the raid, all the bodies to bury and the ones they’ll never recover. Going down lists and crossing out names. Forcing himself to admit that some of them aren’t coming back, even if he hasn’t seen their corpses. 

Julian is just one of many he recalls, every winter when he’s waiting to see who will come back. On some level, there’s a foolish hope that the ones marked _missing_ in their records will reappear- not just Julian, but the previous inhabitants of every other unidentified body- a thought Vesemir tries to suppress. The halls are empty now, and he needs to be more concerned with the three left in his care.

This year, he’ll be looking after another.

Having guests at Kaer Morhen almost makes it feel alive again. Geralt’s companion- the bard, Jaskier- certainly brings a lot of life, enough to account for several people. Just his appearance at the gate is exhausting, more color than Kaer Morhen has ever had.

Vesemir turns away from the gates, disappearing further into the keep where no one will bother him, for fear of getting assigned whatever chore he takes up as an excuse.

Jaskier’s smile is too close to a memory, one he’s not ready to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory, at long last! And more angst, of course. 
> 
> I've already mentioned that I haven't played the games and I'm trying my best with characterization of its characters- go easy on me, please. First time trying to write Vesemir (for more than a line or two) so I hope it's not too bad. 
> 
> Let know if you've enjoyed so far! Thanks for all the lovely comments <3


	4. cold as driven snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with the witchers!

Eskel is the first- aside from Vesemir, of course- to make it to Kaer Morhen for the winter, which puts him in the unfortunate position of greeting Geralt’s new bard. There’s an unspoken expectation of fanfare and theatrics that he’s not sure what to do with, Jaskier’s flare of bright colors sticking out against the cold, grey stone.

Jaskier- a name he’s heard, but not fully processed in its absurdity- is fairly graceful about it. He sticks to a simple handshake, surprisingly firm, and doesn’t look intimidated by Eskel in the slightest.

“You’re Eskel, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.” His voice is pleasant, as a bard’s ought to be, and there’s not a trace of insincerity where Eskel knows to look for it. “I have a feeling there’s more than one wolf worthy of a song in this keep.”

Eskel has no idea how to address that horrifying-yet-flattering possibility and one glance at Geralt shows that he’s not alone. Jaskier strikes him as the sort that takes more than years of experience to get used to- and Geralt, unsurprisingly, hasn’t fully managed it yet.

Eskel settles with a hesitant nod, not completely sure he isn’t being led on in some elaborate joke, and Jaskier accepts it without further comment. The bard looks to Geralt, apparently waiting for him to lead on- a novelty in and of itself. If anything, Eskel thought Jaskier would be the one excitedly dragging Geralt around the keep, eager to see every mildly interesting piece of architecture.

A _bard_ is an odd choice. Sure, witchers have brought in... companions, during previous winters, but none as talkative, or flamboyant, as Jaskier. It was a matter of time- they’ve all heard Jaskier’s songs, and have teased Geralt mercilessly over them- but that doesn’t take away the shock of having a bard, of all things, within Kaer Morhen.

Geralt’s done little to dispute the growing rumors; he talks about Jaskier _constantly_. He’s got it bad, and for a human, which is... tricky, to say the least. 

“Jaskier insisted on seeing Kaer Morhen,” Geralt tells him on arrival, as an excuse, “For inspiration.”

Jaskier smiles, no scent of fear, or even apprehension, to be spoken of. His eyes stay trained on Geralt, despite the scenery of the castle surrounding them. Eskel would’ve guessed he’d be the type to gawk, or take notes- the lute on his back and paper sticking out of his bag are a clear indicator of what they’re in for.

Vesemir has made himself scarce- lucky bastard- leaving Eskel stuck with leading them around. He figures he can drop them off at a room and dump the rest of the tour on Geralt- they’re sharing a room, so the layer of pretense is thin, if there at all. Jaskier winks at Eskel as he closes the door behind them, which tells Eskel everything he needs to know.

He’s only gotten halfway down the hall when he starts to hear them again. He tries not to listen in, but pieces of their conversation travel through the walls, echoing off the stone. 

“I can’t _believe_ you’re using me as an excuse. After all the badgering about coming here-“ A pause from Jaskier, and an unidentifiable grumble from Geralt. “No, it’s fine. Though, I’m definitely going to write a song now. For the cover story.”

“The others won’t be as tolerant of your music.”

“ _Tolerant_ , that’s generous. And I’m well aware, thanks again for suggesting this.” He pauses again, and his voice lowers, so Eskel can barely make it out. “Do you think they’re listening in?”

“Witchers don’t sit around and gossip-“

“Speak for yourself.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“So you _do_ think they’re listening?”

Now is probably a good time for Eskel to walk away, but his curiosity gets the better of him and he lingers in the hallway, waiting to hear more. The voices don’t return- whatever secrets Geralt and Jaskier are intent on hiding remain hidden. 

Trust Geralt to bring intrigue to their quiet winters. Eskel has a feeling they won’t be able to complain of boredom, this year.

...

Days at Kaer Morhen follow a pattern. A cold breakfast- whatever is left in the kitchens, mostly jerky- then training. An insufferable amount of training because witchers don’t take vacations and don’t believe in sleeping in on cold mornings. Then there’s a hunt- either for food, or to clear pests- and the rest of the day devolves into card games and drinks until it’s time for dinner. 

The schedule itself is familiar, but it doesn’t feel the same anymore with the ache of muscle memory long forgotten. Kaer Morhen itself is not at all like Jaskier remembers- emptier, for one, which brings a pang of loss that he thought he’d left behind a decade ago. It’s all the more strange to be an outsider to the process. He finds himself waking up in the mornings and reaching for armor that isn’t there- or reaching for the mask he’s stowed at the bottom of his bag.

Geralt, at least, is more relaxed here. There’s less time devoted to travelling or planning ahead, which leaves him room to play Gwent or recline in a hot bath. On one of the first afternoons, before Lambert has arrived, he brings Jaskier up to one of the towers. It’s far beyond the halls Jaskier explored in his time, taking advantage of a semi-hidden passage through dark, partially collapsed stairwells.

The tower extends from a portion of the keep built into the mountain, putting a wall of sheer rock at their backs. Over the edge of the tower’s crumbling parapet, the countryside stretches out before them, dotted with snow-covered trees stubbornly rooted in rocks. Jaskier can see a little over the mountains from here, but it still feels like they’re surrounded, protected.

A thin layer of cloud cover hovers just out of reach- Jaskier is tempted to scale the wall further, but is held back by Geralt’s arm snug around his waist. It’s unlikely either of them are in danger of falling or, for that matter, of dying in the fall, but he appreciates the unneeded safety net, if only for the contact it allows them. As they approach to edge, to enjoy the view, he wraps his own arm around Geralt, ostensibly for the same reason, though it’d only succeed in bringing them down together.

Geralt shakes his head, but doesn’t remove Jaskier’s arm. He’s looking out over the view with a soft smile, and when he turns back to Jaskier, there’s brightness in his eyes, warm happiness that Jaskier rarely sees rise to the surface. The whole trip feels worth it for this- there’s little Jaskier wouldn’t give to see Geralt happy.

For a moment, Jaskier can to forget that there are witchers downstairs, waiting for them. Only Lambert’s arrival, with a commotion Jaskier assumes is normal for him, is enough to break up their quiet afternoon.

Dinner with the witchers is just as interesting as he imagined. 

They drag out some of the weaker alcohol- still strong, if not by Jaskier’s standards- stored in the back, since no one who frequents Kaer Morhen is interested in drinking anything short of deadly for humans. He’s almost disappointed that he won’t have the experience of getting properly sloshed with the others, but it’s for the best. He needs to be on his game, or he’ll forget something- it’s hard enough keeping his act straight when he’s in the company of humans.

It was particularly difficult when he first left the Path- not only was he grappling with reinventing himself, he also had to figure out how to blend in, after many, many years of being around witchers, almost exclusively. The major differences were obvious, of course, but the more subtle ones always caught him off guard. There’s no sensation quite like realizing everyone is staring because he’d forgotten to wear a coat in the snow, or got carried away editing his notes in complete darkness.

One of his first challenges is the meal itself. 

Technically, a witcher can go a good while without eating- but it doesn’t mean they should, or that it’s comfortable. He’s not out training and hunting all day, so he doesn’t eat as much as the other witchers, but a higher metabolism means he can’t get away with the meal expected from a human of his size.

The most effective solution, he decides, is stealing food off Geralt’s plate. He doesn’t bother being subtle about it- lovers are meant to share, after all, and Geralt can get away with as many seconds as he wants because he is a big, bad witcher. 

However, he doesn’t account for Eskel watching him more carefully than he first thought. 

“Your bard eats a lot.”

Jaskier stops halfway through reaching for Geralt’s plate for the third time and pulls his hand back. Thinking on his feet, he says the first thing that comes to mind, “Singing expends a lot of calories.” 

Alright, it’s not very inspired, but what do _witchers_ know about- 

“Bullshit,” Lambert points, accusatory, “You just sit around and pluck a few strings.”

Jaskier stands up, prepared to defend his honor, or something equally foolish. Lambert tenses, too- evidently ready and willing to get in a fight with someone that, as far as he knows, is entirely human.

Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s arm and Jaskier frowns down at him, if only to keep up appearances. His reputation will never recover if it gets out that all one needs to quell his fury are Geralt’s puppy dog eyes. Geralt has the good sense to look serious- knowing that there is a real possibility of Jaskier giving up this farce to start a fight over his music.

“I’ll let it slide, just this once.” Jaskier sits and huffs, leaning more into his role of pampered bard. “Your friends are outrageously uncultured.”

Geralt snorts and Jaskier glares at him until he puts his hands up in surrender and pushes the rest of his plate towards him, as a peace offering. Jaskier, not to be outdone, pretends to be mad for another few seconds, only giving in when Geralt elbows him lightly, gesturing towards the fresh meat- actually seasoned, unlike the rations they get on the road. 

Eskel is still watching, curious. “I’ve never seen a human match a witcher’s appetite.”

It’s a meaningless comment- mild observation, maybe the set up for a joke- but it’s difficult to ignore the nagging suspicion that the others are onto him, that he hasn’t mastered acting human. He’s lucky Vesemir hasn’t joined them this evening- the old man is more skeptical than either of these two, especially when it comes to supposed strangers. 

“You should see me drink.” Now _that_ would be disastrous- he can feel Geralt tense beside him, unsure if he’s kidding. “But if you must know, I need the energy and stamina for certain _nocturnal activities._ ”

Jaskier smiles placidly as Geralt and Lambert choke on their ale in sync, and pats Geralt on the back a little more firmly than necessary.

Eskel, wisely, takes his sip after, hiding his smile with the rim of the mug. “Matching a witcher’s appetite in more ways than one.”

Jaskier hums in agreement, content to let him believe what he will. He’s not wrong, per se. It’s simply not as great a feat as he’s imagining. Misdirection at its finest- one of his favorite tools of the trade.

“I’ll be sure to steer clear of your room.” Lambert grins, clearly thrilled to have drama to exploit so early in the winter. “Although, with the lungs on your bard, I’m not sure anyone will be escaping it.”

Geralt takes it well enough- dry humor making an effective shield. “Not my fault you’re not getting laid.”

That has Eskel shaking his head, experienced enough to anticipate a scuffle- verbal or physical, hard to tell with witchers. Jaskier sits back to watch them, trying to get an idea of how they all fit together and where he might be able to squeeze in. It’s a lot like sizing up a crowded tavern, adjusting his mask to what’ll best fit their expectations.

Lambert is easy to identify as the one he’ll have the most trouble with. Fond of creating friction for the sake of having friction. He doesn’t strike Jaskier as the type that’ll be excited to make friends with a bard, human and happy, unable to understand the family he’s coming into.

Eskel, though, isn’t going to be much easier. He and Geralt are thick as thieves, brothers through and through. He doubts Eskel will welcome an intrusion, a human that seems, by all rights, to be a bad decision for Geralt.

All the same, Jaskier’s willing to give it a shot. He agreed to come here, against his better instincts, and he’s not going to throw away the opportunity- not after Yennefer put so much work into the glamor. Still, it’s work best done sober. No need to push it on their first night getting acquainted.

Geralt is the first to get up, once Lambert is too distracted with his drink to jeer at them and Eskel has his hands full dealing with Lambert, and Jaskier is quick to follow. They both keep it together until they’re out of sight and out of earshot- Geralt breaks before him, smiles coming easier since they’ve arrived here, “You can’t keep messing with them if you want to keep your cover.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.” Jaskier rolls his eyes- a gesture that’s more effective now that he’s no longer wearing a mask. “It’ll be fine. If they’re anything like you, they’ll need a decade to take a hint.”

He grumbles, half-hearted. “Not a _decade_.”

“The fact that we have to talk technicalities proves my point.”

Geralt shoves him with his shoulder, prompting Jaskier to pretend to stumble, exaggeratedly losing his balance. The performance is betrayed by his laughter as he almost hits the wall and Geralt catches him- Jaskier lets him, dramatically falling against his chest.

“You didn’t have that much to drink.” Geralt nudges him, an empty threat of dropping him. “Don’t think you’re fooling anybody.”

Jaskier leans against him- heavily, as if he needed the support. “And isn’t that a shame? I would’ve liked to partake in something a little stronger. It’s not exactly common in taverns.”

Geralt hums, the sound picking up slightly- enough to draw Jaskier’s attention. Lifting his head, he sees Geralt pull out a bottle, apparently smuggled in his bag on the way here. Its hand-labelled, just like the others, reading _White Gull_.

“Oh, you beautiful bastard. When did you-” Jaskier doesn’t finish, pulling Geralt bodily into their room and taking the bottle from his hands. “It’s been a _long_ time.”

“Leave some for me,” Geralt teases, and adds, more seriously, “Be careful.”

“When have I ever not been careful?”

Truthfully, it’s an unnecessary concern- Jaskier knows how to enjoy a drink. He’s already digging through his bag, hunting down the ridiculously fancy wine chalices Yennefer gifted him. Geralt scoffs at the sight of them- all bulky jewels and clashing colors- but accepts his glass of White Gull, a drink not nearly classy enough for its vessel.

Geralt raises his, in a toast. “To Kaer Morhen.”

It’s not a surprising choice, by any means, but Jaskier finds he doesn’t mind it- though, maybe that’s the alcohol talking. He smiles and lifts his own glass, meeting Geralt’s halfway.

“To Kaer Morhen, and to family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, our wolves have arrived! And a bit of Jaskier pov, too.


End file.
